1. প্রচ্ছদ
2. সাহিত্য

Agron Shele (Albania – Belgium)
https://atunispoetry.com/

Agron Shele was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet, Albania. Is the author of the following literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (novel), “Wrong Image” (novel), “Innocent Passage” (poetry), White stones (poetry) RIME SPARSE-Il suono di due voci poetiche del Mediterraneo (Poesie di Agron Shele e Claudia Piccinno), La mia Musa (“Libri di-versi in diversi libri” – Italy, 2020); Murmure d’un autre monde (poetry), Klisania, Queen of the lake (short story) and “Ese-I and Ese-II”. Agron Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane-1”, “Pegasiada, Open Lane-2, ATUNIS magazine (Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )” and Atunis Galaxy Anthology 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023. He is the winner of some international literary prizes. Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”. He is published in many newspapers, national and international magazines, as well as published in many global anthologies: Almanac 2008, 2017; World Poetry Yearbook 2009, 2013, 2015, The Second Genesis-2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Metafora (Poland), Keleno-Greece, etc. Currently resides in Belgium and continues to dedicate his time and efforts in publishing literary works with universal values.


That’s me

That’s me
And I can’t be changed.
Always remaining the inconvenience of the day
A fatigue from the hours playing the marionets
And I believe that even one moment
Can adjudicate the meaning of the universe
The ghosts in the brain
In the flames and the soul
To burn the dark mass of the world
On the stake, fueled by my limbs,
That blaze more than the light itself.

Vertigo in the space
Between two different rhythms
The one chained at the altar built from ancient beliefs
And the hurry to catch the lost past.
Time with no vortex
But a crystal river that is fed on snow
Flowing in my regions
Streaming in my veins
Still believing in a menhir that marks my geneses
In a castle that kneads warrior’s blood under the moss
In a bridge that connect the sun’s crossing
In a shore that hides the lost bell underneath
The ancient oak.



Peace With the Season

I

Here is the land
With the leaves hovering to descend
Laid the yellow carpet
In mosaics that reveal the dilemmas of time,
As far as you can see
In the sky and the basements below,
Where light beams don’t reach
But the mystery becomes even greater,
Hiding the old colors
And steps they can never reach.
This sky is bronze today
With beams that often reach the cathedral,
Where all the gates of the soul open
Where a mother gathers them at her breast,
The magical St. Mary is waiting as always with open arms
Illuminating the dome above each sun.

II

Here is the lake
With empty boats,
Lying quietly on the wings of the reeds that begin to sprout,
A swan that flies to the waters,
In its journey
Scoring scars reaching up to the eyes,
It says sometimes late in the evening
In a peace made sacrifice.


I saw the trees
The shadow is reflected in clear water,
Ready to strip and plumb the depths,
Like branches that breathe the bows of the forest,
As the only refuge of flight birds.


III

…And then a wide sidewalk
Where feet trample everyday life,
Between the time of buildings built by medieval hands
And people who go and come back again.